Captain Anasazi
by Susan M. M
Summary: What would happen if Tyr were captain of his own ship?


**Andromeda **(1st or 2nd season)

If this were a movie, it would be PG or PG-13. Not recommended for younger readers.

Originally published in Slipstream #3, by Neon RainBow Press

_Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. _

_**Captain Anasazi**_

_**by Susan M. M.**_

"Sir, all departments report repairs completed," Ryan announced. He looked like a short, blond human, but he was actually an android, an AI. He had once been the ship's avatar of the High Guard Cruiser _Clarion's Call._

Captain Tyr Anasazi of the _Wrath of Achilles_ nodded. The battle had been short and easily won, the damage to the ship minor.

"We can resume our patrol at your word, sir."

"Do so," the Nietszchean captain told the android XO. For a brief time, Ryan had been captain of the _Achilles_, but the AI had quickly realized its limitations, and had been happy to relinquish command to Tyr. For an AI, it was quite competent, but it took a man to command a warship. "I'm going down to the crèche." He looked over his bridge officers, debating which needed the experience most. "Lieutenant Wellington, you have the con."

"Yes, sir." Dirk Wellington of Condor Pride saluted. He swaggered as he approached the command chair.

"Assist him if he needs it," Tyr told Ryan quietly, "but don't peer over his shoulder. Let him handle things."

"Understood, sir," Ryan replied.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

His crew saluted as he passed them in the corridors. It was a taut ship, with a good crew. All Nietschean, of course, except for his Chief Pilot and his XO. His crew women eyed him speculatively as he strode into view, wondering whether a closer relationship than commander and crew were possible.

He saw a blonde in black leather, and smiled.

"Beka."

She turned. "Yes, m'lord?"

"Walk with me," he half-ordered, half-invited his Chief Pilot and First Concubine.

She bowed her head respectfully. "Yes, m'lord."

There were too many Nietzschean crewmen in the corridor to be anything but Nietschean master and kludge slave. Tyr pulled her around the corner into an empty side passage, grabbed her and kissed her. His lips took possession of hers; she could not have escaped had she wanted to. Of course, she didn't want to.

"It was a good day for me when I signed on as a mercenary with that Nightsider to find the _Andromeda_," Tyr told her when they paused for breath.

Although he still considered the man an idealistic fool, Tyr Anasazi had to admit his life had taken a turn for the better since the day he'd met Dylan Hunt. Hard to believe it was ten years now – where did the years disappear? Captain of a ship superior to the _Andromeda Ascendant_, hero of the New Commonwealth, Alpha Male of the re-formed Kodiak Pride, husband, father, warrior.

It was a shame he'd lost Freya – he still missed her, even after all these years – but other wives had taken her place in his bed and his heart.

Three of his wives served aboard _Achilles_: Bradamante, Penny, and Mor.

His second wife and Chief Medical Officer, Bradamante of the Sabra-Jaguar Pride: mother of Hatshephut, Cleopatra, and Ramses. Ramses was being raised in the ships's crèche; the twins were fostered with their uncle Grand Duke Charlemagne.

His fourth wife, Penthesilea of the Osprey Pride, was one of his best fighter pilots, and the mother of Artemis and Mordred.

His fifth wife was Freya's second cousin, Morrigan. Their arranged marriage had sealed the breach with what was left of the Orca Pride, but had produced only one child: Pele. Still, she was a competent hydroponicist, a necessary (if low status) job. She seldom claimed her rightful place in his bed, although she usually agreed when invited. He couldn't expect all his marriages to be happy, and she was content enough with her status as his wife that she had not divorced him after their daughter's birth.

His third wife, Yekaterina, also from the Sabra-Jaguar Pride and half-sister to Grand Duchess Erzabet, mother of Zenobia, Nero, Spartacus, Semiramis, and Hannibal, was not with him at the moment. Pregnant again, she was acting as Consul-General at the Nietzschean Consulate on New Holland whilst on maternity leave. As one of the wives of King Eric's former regent, she was granted a high place at the royal court.

Of course, the Nietzschean consulate on New Holland was just a front. Its true purpose was providing a safe haven for Tamerlane, his firstborn, his heir. And as the genetic reincarnation of Drago Museveni, he was also heir to the overloardship of all the Prides. . . the Nietzschean messiah.

And then there was his slave-concubine, Beka.

Beka Valentine, mother of Wallace and V.J., half-breed bastards who did not even bear his name. William Wallace Valentine, named after a famous Terran warrior, as per Nietzschean custom, and Victoria Jennifer Valentine, sentimentally named for both her grandmothers, as Beka had desired. But his blood flowed through their half-human veins, and he loved them as dearly as he did his legitimate children. More dearly, perhaps, than any of his offspring other than Tamerlane . . . not that he would ever admit such a thing.

"I'm glad it brought us together, m'lord." Beka glanced to see if there were any Nietzscheans in sight. "Tyr. But I'd like being together a lot better if I didn't have to wear this." She touched the leather collar around her neck.

"Ah, but you look so good wearing that . . . and nothing else."

Overcome with passion for her lord and master, she pushed him against the bulkhead, kissing him passionately. She pressed her body against him, arousing him.

_Knock, knock_.

Tyr opened his eyes, roused from his nap.

"Tyr, are you in there?"

"A moment," he responded. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his self-control before answering the door. "Yes, Beka."

"Did you forget? You were going to give me another hand-to-hand combat lesson," she reminded him.

"No, no, I didn't forget. Sorry I'm late. I was . . .meditating."

"Tyr, is something wrong?" He was looking at her so strangely.

"No, nothing's wrong. Just thinking. Daydreaming." Just a dream. Just a dream . . . for now.

****

Writer's Note: The writer wishes to assure the readers that no matter what Tyr may believe, she herself does not believe for a nanosecond that Beka would fall in line with Tyr's plans. And if Tyr believes it outside of erotic dreams, then he obviously doesn't know Beka Valentine as well as he wants to.


End file.
